


Unbroken.

by Letha



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Broken John, Crying, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letha/pseuds/Letha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Humans have different ways of coping. And maybe this was John's.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbroken.

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a Word War yesterday at #Innercircle and eventually developed into a full fic of sorts. Thanks for the support, guys! ^_^ You're all lovely, and I shall remain starstruck for a while, if you don't mind! xD
> 
>  **ETA:** This was retro-betaed. I can't thank enough the lovely [honeybee221b](http://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybee221b/pseuds/honeybee221b), who was an amazing beta and helped me put in words what came through my mouth. You, my dear, are brilliant!! <3 I can't wait to go on working with you!

Sherlock's eyes were glassy, slowly filling with tears. His eyes sparkled in the night. John had returned to his grave. He was leaning on the tombstone as though it was all he could do to support himself in order not to collapse on the floor. He was shaking, probably crying. His jeans looked dirty, his hair too long, his pullover too thin for the freezing winter breeze. When he had arrived, Sherlock could see the stubble dressing his chin. He looked positively run-down.  
  
And now he was crying silently.  
  
A buzzing noise came from Sherlock's pocket. His hand slid between the fabric of his coat and he produced the small device; his thin fingers danced around the screen for a moment before stopping.  
  
Do you believe me now, brother?  
-MH.  
  
Sherlock repressed a growl. Yes. He now believed him. But why? Why was John this shaken? Why do people care so much? Had he been in John's place... Well, in all honesty, he had no idea what he would do. Losing John would feel like losing a limb, or a lung. He would be able to go on living, but it would be tough. It would take a long time for him to get used to the situation. But he would. And even if that seemed dreadful, Sherlock knew it was true. He would be able to move on. He wouldn't go to John's grave every night and cry over it, would he? No. He would look for the killer of his best friend, his only friend, and not rest until the man was behind bars, or even better, dead.  
  
Yes, humans have different ways of coping, and maybe this was John's, but for a friend, to be this bad after... had it been three months already?  
  
Sherlock stared at John again. He was now kneeling on the ground in front of the tomb, his arms tight around himself. He must be cold.  
  
Sherlock unbuttoned his coat. He knew Mycroft would hate him for this. He knew he was putting John in danger, but he couldn't see him this vulnerable, this hurt... One of the sleeves slid down his shoulder, and then the other one. He had to. John needed it. He needed him.  
  
Sherlock walked with determined steps. For a moment, it was as though John was farther away than he truly was. It felt as if every step he took was carrying him away from John instead of closer to him. But finally he got there. John didn't look up from where he was drowning in his own tears and sorrow.   
  
Sherlock wrapped his coat around John’s shoulders. John stopped sobbing moments after he rested the garment on him. Slowly, with his eyes wide – though keeping his eyes on the tomb in front of him like he was afraid of what he would see when he finally looked up – he straightened up. He was silent. His fingers moved to grab the collar of the coat. He rubbed them on the rich fabric.  
  
“Sherlock,” he murmured.  
  
His head snapped up, his eyes finally met the detective's, and his mouth remained open.  
  
“Sherlock,” he repeated, now in a louder voice.  
  
Sherlock looked at him and allowed himself a smile. “Hello, John.”  
  
Now he could see John properly. He noticed the grey bags under his red, swollen eyes; the pale complexion that gave him an air of one who is sick; the disheveled and dirty hair; the eyes of one meeting a ghost. A ghost. Sherlock guessed that was what he must be for John.  
  
John's jaw trembled. Was he shivering in cold or fear? No, definitely fear: his pupils were dilated, and his skin was even more pale now.   
  
John stood up, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's. The coat slowly fell from his back. The garment made an empty noise on the grass. Sherlock wrinkled his mouth. It would be damp later, and John still needed to cover himself. He was trembling.  
  
Sherlock observed as John's expression changed. His brain noted each and every sentiment that his friend went through as they transformed his features. Wider eyes, slight smile: that was surprise mixed with relief; a frown: confusion; his eyes cast down: he was reflecting; mouth closed, eyes back on Sherlock's face, eyebrows even closer: he was getting angry. And the last one, his head tilted back some, his lips were tightly closed, his nostrils wider... What was he...   
  
It was too late to duck when he realised what John was about to do. His fist hit Sherlock with strength he wasn't given credit for on a daily basis and spun him around.  
  
“What was that for?!” Sherlock complained, crouched over and holding his now sore cheek.  
  
Without uttering a word, John leaped on his back. Sherlock groaned as John's knuckles made contact with his ribs.  
  
“You. Are. A. Bastard,” John managed in between blows. “You. Made me. Think. You. Were–”  
  
Sherlock managed to stand up as John's words gradually turned into sobs. John stopped hitting his friend with much strength, eventually only patting him, and cried into Sherlock's shoulder, words too muffled to be understood. The detective finally spun around to put his arms around John's shaking body. He didn't need to hear his friend to know what he was saying: he is a bastard, how could he do something like that, making him believe he was dead, if he had any idea of how much it hurt. John's arms circled his waist. His fingers dug into his flesh, as if the man believed that he was going to disappear. In spite of his now sore ribs and abdomen, Sherlock held on tight to John's shaking form.  
  
He rested his cheek on the top of John's head and hugged him until he stopped crying, eventually merely hiccuping.  
  
“Why did you do that?” John asked eventually, his voice muffled against Sherlock's neck.  
  
The detective swallowed. “To protect you.”  
  
John shook his head. “Don't you dare do it again. Don't you dare leave me, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock smiled. “Promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is what I imagine the re-encounter would be like, plus the always-there-in-my-fics underlying romance theme. I just needed to get it out of my system, I guess ^_^
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
